


Honeycomb

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Elemental, My Dear Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Beekeeping, Bees, Elemental Magic, Fluff, Honey, M/M, Nymphs & Dryads, Pixies, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Holmes and Bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After weeks of long, hard cases, Sherlock brings John to his family home in Surrey to relax and unwind. The countryside is quiet and soothing, except for one small problem. The members of the Holmes family are Elemental sorcerers. Something Sherlock has been hiding from John.<br/>But of course, you don't stay best friends with Sherlock Holmes for so long without picking up a few things along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeycomb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnite/gifts).



> A prompt fill, but I fell in love with this 'verse. I am definitely going to write more in this world.

Tiny balls of gold and black. They were beautiful. Darting about the gardens in clumsy, haphazard paths as they went from one flower to the next before returning to Sherlock to report about what they had found. 

The bees bumped into his cheeks, their wings buffeting against his skin were almost imperceptible, but just enough to make him laugh. 

He was standing with his hands outstretched, palms up. In the centre of each hand glittering wisps of power pooled and came together, twisting and twining and growing until transparent flowers bloomed, attracting more of the bees. 

_ A cluster of lilacs. Very sweet. Thirty meters north by northwest of the hive. _ One of the bees danced out on his arm, her pollen baskets heavy. The others watched, following the pattern of her waggling dance, first one direction then the next to make sure they could find the food source. Bobbing and dipping, they took to the air once more to find the lilac bush Sherlock’s father had been tending for as long as Sherlock could remember. 

The tired little worker rested in Sherlock’s hand under the petals of his phantom flower, taking the energy he provided. She was very pleased with her haul for the day, and was content to let Not Queen But Still Important tend to her needs for a time before bringing the pollen into the hive. The warm tingling sensation that came from Not Queen But Still Important’s fingertip when he gently caressed her thorax between her whisper thin wings was delicious. Like finding a just bloomed honeysuckle that could feed the entire hive. 

Sherlock grinned down at the bee when she toddled off the end of his fingers to make her way back to the hive. The flowers he had formed grew and changed colour before turning into a pair of carnations. 

“How is it possible for the  _ water  _ to taste so good here?” 

With a jolt of surprise, Sherlock closed his hands, the flowers disappearing in puffs of green smoke. He turned, looking guilty as he tried to wave the smoke away without John seeing it. Thankfully the grass around him was vibrant enough to disguised it. 

“Excellent filtration on the pipes from Papa’s well,” Sherlock lied. The well was his father’s, yes. But he tended to it with the same love and ability that he used for the gardens that well fed. He spoke to the sprites that lived in the grass around it to find out if there were leaks or cracks in the walls. Every night he sat patiently and listened to the burbling, trickling talk from the well’s naiad on the quality of the water and gave her little trinkets in exchange. It was the same sort of treaty he had in place as with the nymphs who scampered about his garden, picking spoiled beans off the poles and bruised leaves from plants to trade for marbles and bits of thread, and protection from Mother Holmes’ fierce salamander who could never be persuaded to stay in his fireplace when there were guests over. Already, Sherlock had needed to stop him from singeing John’s shoelaces twice. 

Turning his face up to the sun, John sighed happily, clearly not caring that Sherlock was lying to him. It was too beautiful a day to worry about secrets and sly detectives. The garden was fragrant without being overpowering, and the grass underfoot felt like a carpet. John kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks so he could dig his toes into the rich soil. “Well, remind me to fill a few bottles before we go home. I’m sure Mrs. H would love it.” 

It was wonderful to get the stink of London off his skin and out of his hair. Just an afternoon in the Surrey countryside and he already felt better after weeks,  _ months  _ of ruthless cases. And Sherlock looked better for the visit as well. John had noticed that he spent most of the day outside in the gardens, walking around and laughing at things that didn’t seem to be there. It was unusual, but with so much strangeness in their day to day lives, at least it wasn’t worrying. And when the best description for someone laughing at nothing was ‘unusual’ it was a true sign to how odd things were for them. 

John shook off the thoughts and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who still looked guilty about something. 

“You look like you unravelled Mum’s knitting, and left fingerprints in the jelly.” 

Sherlock’s brows twitched together in confusion and his head tilted to the side as he tried to parse what that meant. “Oh,” he said at length. “I look like I did something wrong.” 

Tapping the side of his nose, John nodded and crossed the grass to Sherlock’s side. “Yeah, so what was it?” he asked. 

“Nothing. Why would I have done something wrong? How could, I mean. Not why. How. How could I? I’m just standing out here alone.” 

“You’re also babbling,” John snorted and gave Sherlock a nudge with his hip. “Fine, don’t tell me. But I’ll figure it out eventually.” With another slow, deep breath through his nose, John stretched his arms back then folded his hands behind his head. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?” 

“My what?” Sherlock’s eyes snapped wide and he stared hard at John. 

It was frustrating, really. It should have made him proud, but it just made things harder. Over the years, John’s faculties for deduction had grown to the point that he could read Sherlock even when he was trying to hide from him. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep things from spilling out, whether it was bits of information or little puffs of power. 

“The bees, Sherlock. You’ve been out here communing with nature since just after breakfast. Why don’t you show me the hives that the honey came from that I just used in my tea?”

John didn’t bother putting his shoes back on, but Sherlock noticed that he was careful where he put his feet so he didn’t step on any of the stray thistles or wildflowers that scattered across the blanket of the lawn. If John had turned around, he would have seen the clusters of clovers and bluebells that bloomed in Sherlock’s footprints. And if he had looked too closely, he would have seen the pixies and brownies fighting over who got to pick them. 

“The hive that we got the honey from is this one here,” Sherlock rested his hand on the edge of one hive, his fingers trailing over it lovingly. The hive was carved to look like a straw skep, but it was made of wood with different partitions that could be added or removed as needed. Sherlock opened a panel and slid it out to show John the thick comb. Pressing a finger into it, he dragged it through the comb to bring up a trickle of liquid light. With a hint of a smile, Sherlock held his hand out to offer it to John. “These bees get their nectar mostly from clover, but with traces of heather.” 

Ducking his head down under Sherlock’s finger, John closed his lips around it to suck the honey off, his tongue curling around the digit to get every last trace. “Oh, that’s delicious.” Pulling off with a wet pop, John wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist and grinned. “Almost as good as Scottish honey,” John teased. 

The flowers and bushes began to buzz angrily, the bees livid at the slight. To think that any other bees would produce honey better than theirs, it was appalling. 

Sherlock coughed loudly, waving one hand in front of his face to distract John while the other flailed frantically behind his back to silence his friends. The burst of power was enough to stun the closest bees, sending them to fall, confused, to the ground and the threatening drone cut off as quickly as it began. 

“Oh, poor little guy,” John murmured when he saw one of the bees balancing on a blade of grass. He knelt and cupped his hand under it to lift it up. “What happened, did you swat it?” he asked, turning one hand over to offer the smear of honey that was still on it. 

“No, of course not.” Sherlock sounded utterly insulted, but his mood changed abruptly when he saw how careful John was with the little honey bee. His expression softening, Sherlock put his finger into the hollow of John’s hand to allow the bee to crawl up onto his knuckles. “She doesn’t come from this hive,” he explained, walking them both across the lawn to one of the other hives. This one was made of an old log which had been hollowed out, sanded, and sliced into large portions to create different chambers for the colony. Sherlock set his passenger down near one of the entrances to allow the bee to climb inside. 

“You know which hives individual bees come from?” John’s brows went up, and his hairline came down to try to meet them, leaving him with a scrunched, confused expression. 

“Yes, obviously. These ones smell completely different than the ones from the skep, while they all smell different from the bees that come from Mr. Landry’s apiary from down the lane.” Sherlock was too absorbed in crouching down to watch the dance routines to realise that his explanation would raise more questions than it answered. 

“And what do Mr. Landry’s smell like?” John drawled. 

_ Rich clover patch. Fifteen meters, due north.  _

“Like too much smoke and not enough sweet.” The reply was distracted, and Sherlock frowned. Landry never took proper care of his hives, not caring about the tireless workers who provided him with the honey he sold at market, charging such an inflated price, simply because he used fancy jars to hold it. The occasional lone bee who got lost and came to him for a rest complained about mites and cramping in the hives. Sherlock would leave bowls of sugar water around the edge of the property, but there was not much more he could do for them. His own friends got a regular, liberal dusting of powdered sugar to combat mites when he wasn’t there to banish them. 

Sherlock looked up from his examination of the hive to see John gazing down at him with a warm look on his face and the glow of the afternoon sunlight glinting in his eyes. Thankful that his position put his own face in shadow, Sherlock felt his cheeks turning red. If John commented on it, he could blame it on the heat. 

Instead of making a remark, John’s smile grew and he reached a hand down to help hoist Sherlock up off the ground. “You’ll have to teach me all about this someday,” he told him, tucking a hand into the curve up his elbow to steer Sherlock around so he could see the rest of the apiary. 

None of the colonies were too close together, and each were in a different design while still being box hives. At each one, Sherlock explained the types of nectar they usually collected and the flavours of the honey they produced. He waxed poetic about amber hues and delicate sweetness, his fingers darting in the air for emphasis. 

He was enjoying himself too much, letting his guard down in his happiness of having another person listen to him and actually show interest in what he was saying. As his fingers moved, streams of green and silver followed them like ribbons. 

Closing his hand into a tight fist, Sherlock dropped it to his side before shooting a sidelong glance at John. 

Instead of a look of shock or disgust, John had a relaxed, happy smile on his face. His eyes were hooded with crinkles around them as he squinted in the sunlight. 

“Come on, let’s go see if your Mum will give us some more of that raspberry tart and you can tell me about your first hive.” 

As they walked back to the house, if Sherlock had looked behind them, he would have seen the pixies scrambling to catch the crumbs of Scottish shortbread that John dropped in a trail for them from his pocket as they made their way inside.


End file.
